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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
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.  https://archive.org/details/arthuratkinsextrOOatki_O 


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PJHVR-ATKINi 

EXTRACTS  FROM  THE  LETTERS 
WITH  NOTES  ON  PAINTING  AND 
LANDSCAPE  :  WRITTEN  DURING 
THE  PERIOD  OF  HIS  WORK  AS  A  PAINTER  IN 
THE  LAST  TWO  YEARS  OF  HIS  LIFE  .... 
1896  :  1898 


A.  M.  ROBERTSON  :  SAN  FRANCISCO  :  CALIFORNIA 
M  DCCCC  VIII 


Copyright  by  Bruce  Porter 
December  1908 


Printed  by 

® be  lbtanl*p.®aplor  ffompanp 

San  Francisco 


THE  LETTERS  OF  ARTHUR  ATKINS 


ARTHUR  ATKINS 
1873-1899 

For  the  friends  of  Arthur  Atkins,  these 
extracts  from  his  letters,  from  the  notes  writ¬ 
ten  upon  the  margins  of  his  sketches,  will  have 
a  real  and  touching  value.  They  will  recall 
for  them,  his  talk,  his  interests,  the  lovely 
charm  of  the  serious  and  noble  friend  they 
knew.  For  those  to  whom  he  was  unknown, 
the  pages  may  reveal  something  of  the  sensi¬ 
tive  mind  and  heart  of  the  artist :  his  response 
to  the  beauty  and  dignity  of  the  visible  world. 

The  publication  rests  upon  the  desire  of  his 
associates,  to  supplement  the  pictures  with 
whatever  remains  as  a  record  of  his  gifts : — 
obscured  as  these  gifts  were,  by  the  circum¬ 
stances  of  life,  by  the  last  sad  circumstance 
of  death  in  early  manhood. 

It  is  with  the  belief  that  his  place  in  art, 
his  influence  upon  painting  in  California, 
will,  in  the  future,  be  perceived  as  distinctive 
and  important,  that  these  written  words  are 
preserved;  in  deep  affection  for  him,  and  in 
trust  for  that  future. 


£ 


THE  LETTERS 


If  I  have  avoided  mentioning  the  hardships  Piedmont, 
and  discouragements  of  my  work,  yet  the  Oct.,  1896. 
hardships  are  very  real ;  but  why  detail  all 
I  have  to  do  without?  Surely  the  incubus 
of  discouragement— the  accumulation  of  the 
expressions  of  despair  and  defeat,  both  writ¬ 
ten  and  spoken, — is  heavy  enough  upon 
humanity,  without  my  adding  to  it. 

I  have  made  my  choice:  from  this  on  the 
only  pleasure  I  count  upon  is  the  pleasure  in 
work,  in  books,  in  the  open  country:  and  if 
I  have  good  food,  and  good  clothes  upon  my 
back,  I  will  thank  God  and  feel  happy. 

The  hope  that  sustains  me  is  that  my  work 
may  some  day  rank  as  the  work  of  an  honest 
man,  who  painted  as  he  saw  and  felt.  Don’t 
think  it  is  all  plain  sailing;  if  I  did  not  keep 
the  whip-hand  on  myself,  this  problem  of  the 
future  would  ruin  the  possibilities  of  the 
present;  and  if  I  do  not  speak  of  discourage¬ 
ment,  do  not  think  it  is  because  it  is  easy.  I 
remember  always,  that  littleness  of  life  means 
littleness  of  an  additional  sort  in  the  work: 
that  if  one  cares  for  one’s  work,  one  cannot 
be  careless  about  one’s  life — that  the  artist 
who  would  be  sincere  in  his  work,  must  learn 
above  all  else,  to  be  honest  with  himself. 


1 


On  the 
T  rain, 
Apr.  is, 
1897- 


New  York, 
Apr.,  1897. 


Red  plush — lots  of  cinders — the  prairie  out¬ 
side  :  a  man,  burdened  by  the  thought  that  it 
is  Sunday,  dismally  whistles  “Beulah  Land.” 
This  prairie  country  is  peculiarly  Sunday-like 
— absolutely  without  interest  or  incident. 
Five  hundred  miles  from  St.  Louis,  Spring 
begins  to  show,  and  while  it  has  a  beauty  of 
its  own,  the  character  of  the  landscape  is 
monotonous  and  the  colour  very  acid,  the 
greens  sharp  where  they  show:  but  the  bare 
trees  are  of  a  very  delicate  purple,  accented 
here  and  there  by  almond  blossoms  of  a  gentle 
pink.  The  country  now,  for  the  first  time 
since  leaving  the  San  Joaquin  Valley,  begins 
to  be  interesting — lived  in. 


This  city  is  a  most  wonderful  and  beautiful 
place,  with  noble  masses  of  building,  green 
squares,  hazes  of  purple-grey  trees,  now 
flushed  with  a  delicate  golden-green — the 
breaking  of  Spring. 

I  have  seen  the  exhibitions ;  many  of  these 
men  can  paint :  many  can  draw,  too :  few 
have  anything  of  importance  to  say :  so  these 
exhibitions  are  filled  with  affectations,  some¬ 
times  well  painted,  oftener  not — with  the 
fantastic  and  the  commonplace.  These  men 
love  nothing,  and  their  tools  only  in  a  half¬ 
hearted  way.  Here  and  there,  like  a  jewel, 
one  finds  a  beautiful  thing — a  panel  by 
Whistler  and  a  canvas  by  Muhrman.  .  .  . 

The  Bach  fugue  is  still  with  me :  any  one 
using  a  feather  duster  briskly,  sets  it  careering 
through  my  head. 


2 


I  am  able  to  manage  the  memory  of  things  Dynas 
I  have  seen  well  enough,  but  when  I  try  to 
hear  you,  the  Bach  fugue  comes  back  to  me  Mar.!  1897. 
in  spasmodic  fragments :  then  the  swirl  of 
that  other  big  thing,  or  the  Widor  (which  I 
heard  twice  and  refused  to  hear  a  third 
time)  ;  it  is  a  very  faint  memory  now,  but 
faint  as  it  is,  it  comes  with  great  dignity  and 
beauty  .  .  . 

It  is  Arthur  Atkins  who  writes:  not  what 
he  might  be;  I’m  trying  hard  to  accept  him 
and  make  the  best  of  it,  but  it  takes  time.  It 
is  the  vile  artificial  conscience  he  is  cursed 
with,  that  gives  all  the  trouble:  but  there  is 
always  the  comfort  that  we  have  only  fifty 
years,  at  the  most,  before  we  get  a  new  start, 
and  it  really  ought  to  be  great  fun.  I’m  hop¬ 
ing  that  they  will  set  me  to  work  on  the  form¬ 
ing  planets — making  the  new  landscapes  and 
arranging  better  colour  schemes  for  the  sun¬ 
sets.  You  will  have  placed  at  your  command 
the  thunders  and  the  high  winds  of  heaven, 
to  compose  as  you  will;— what  fun  it  will  be 
to  go!  But  like  the  “Jolly,  jolly  Mariners,” 

I  say  “take  back  your  golden  fiddles,  and  give 
me  paints  and  oils” — but  golden  fiddles,  with 
splendidly  dressed  players  in  the  full  evening 
light— we  won’t  quarrel  with  that  sort  of 
thing ! 

Last  Sunday  morning  I  went  to  Bristol 
Cathedral.  There  was  no  postlude,  and  I 
heard  the  organ  only  during  the  service  and 
at  some  distance.  These  great  cathedrals 
have  a  way  of  giving  every  sound  a  very 
positive  value  (just  as  certain  lights  give 
every  object  a  distinct  note  of  colour)  so 
3 


that  if  the  playing  were  more  or  less  me¬ 
chanical,  I  should,  probably,  be  none  the 
wiser. 

There  is  much  that  is  very  beautiful  about 
these  lawn-like  meadows,  covered  with  prim¬ 
roses  and  spotted  with  great  elms :  the  sky  is 
often  beautiful,  too,  in  a  delicate  way,  but 
the  line  is  not  the  line  of  the  Piedmont 
country,  and  the  colour  as  a  whole  is  thin  and 
sharp. 

One  nice  thing  about  this  place  is  the  long 
quiet  evenings,  and  when  they  are  clear,  there 
comes  over  everything  the  most  wonderful 
subdued  light,  which  embraces  and  trans¬ 
figures  the  whole  world :  and  this  light  fades 
quietly — about  ten  o’clock  it  has  gone. 


Penarth,  England  is  much  more  beautiful  now,  than 
June,  1897.  when  I  landed:  the  green  less  acid  and  the 
long  evenings  with  their  golden  light,  drive 
me  utterly  daft.  The  fields  with  the  grass 
just  being  cut,  and  the  wonderful  wonderful 
scents  of  the  pink  clover,  of  the  woodbine 
from  the  hedges,  make  me  want  to  shriek 
aloud — for  I  cannot  paint  scents.  .  .  . 

All  this  seeing  has  encouraged  me  greatly: 
I  know  I  see  and  feel  things  beautifully 
enough :  what  I  lack  is  the  power  to  state  it 
all  in  a  direct  way.  It  will  come  in  time. 
.  .  .  Heaven  only  knows  what  I  am !  “a 

blooming  cosmopolouse”  I  suppose :  I  don't 
care — I  like  this  roving  round  the  world — it 
suits  me  well.  I  have  just  finished  a  fairly 
large  landscape,  looking  down  from  the  cliffs 
high  above,  with  just  the  thin  white  line  of 

4 


breakers— -quiet  and  low  in  colour,  with  some 
of  the  solemnity  of  the  sea.  But  after  all,  it 
is  Piedmont  I  want  to  paint:  every  now  and 
then  the  desire  to  see  it,  “sweeps  gustily  thro’ 
my  soul,”  but  the  whole  world  is  beautiful, 
and  as  some  one  has  said,  “It  is  by  the  grace 
of  God  that  we  are  artists.”  I  leave  for 
Paris  in  a  week:  if  Paris  is  more  beautiful 
than  this,  I  shall  go  off  with  an  intense  flash 
and  an  explosion,  for  my  enthusiasm  has 
reached  the  top  notch! 


Your  letter  from  Inverness,  fragrant  with  Paris, 
the  odor  of  sun-burnt  hills,  of  the  sea  and  ^ub>  -re¬ 
wind-blown  woods,  was  hailed  with  joy  on  its 
arrival  here,  last  night. 

W.  and  I  had  just  returned  from  dinner, 
and  as  the  sun  went  down  with  pomp  and 
purple  behind  the  Louvre,  we  sat  upon  the 
wall  over  the  river,  seeing  the  swirl  of  the 
sea  from  the  hills  above  Tomales  Bay.  It 
was  a  fine  letter:  for  me,  full  of  sights  of  big 
landscape  and  the  sea:  what  shall  I  tell  you, 
in  return?  This  morning  we  were  at  St. 

Sulpice.  On  going  in  from  the  hard  white 
glare  of  the  street,  one  is  struck  and  quieted 
by  a  pervading  opulence :  the  air  is  soft 
and  slightly  perfumed  by  the  incense.  Col¬ 
oured  by  it  and  by  the  glass,  the  atmos¬ 
phere  becomes  golden,  and  gold  is  everywhere 
— in  the  air,  in  the  colour  of  the  small  organ, 
and  in  the  altar  and  the  vestments  of  the 
priests ;  the  lighted  candles  strike  a  lower  note 
of  the  same  colour;  and,  afar  off,  one  hears 
the  chanting  of  the  choir:  beautiful  voices 
5 


of  children  and  men,  like  jewels — turquoise 
and  opals  of  blue,  set  nobly  in  gold.  Oh ! 
but  it  is  splendid — one  sits  almost  dreaming 
and  thanking  God  for  the  gift  of  ears  and 
eyes.  In  the  midst  of  the  wealth  of  sound 
and  colour  and  complete  happiness,  the  great 
organ  crashes  out,  with  a  force  as  irresistible 
as  the  sea  at  Point  Bonita !  And  here  words 
cease  to  be  of  use;  it  is  great,  too  great  to 
say  much  about :  one  just  listens  and  wonders. 
But  for  you,  it  might  have  been  years  before 
I  heard  Widor:  the  joy  I  have  in  great  music, 
makes  me  very  grateful  to  you. 


Aug.,  1897.  My  second  volume  of  “The  Lark”  reached 
me  a  few  days  ago.  How  utterly  Californian 
it  is  and  heavens ! — how  Californian  am  I ! 

It  is  the  beginning  of  great  things  to  be 
done  in  California;  from  such  a  land,  gener¬ 
ous  and  open-handed,  a  great  art  should 
spring.  .  .  . 

Did  I  tell  you  of  the  luck  I  have  had  here? 
how  my  uncle,  Mr.  Keppel,  made  over  to  me 
his  rooms,  till  the  Spring?  Such  a  charming 
place  it  is,  which  for  a  long  time  Whistler 
wanted  to  get  from  him. 

It  is  before  seven  in  the  morning:  I  write 
by  the  window  (which  fills  a  broad  low  arch) 
the  two  sides  swinging  in.  A  few  feet  below, 
on  the  sidewalk,  the  gardeners  from  the 
country  have  their  plants;  they  come  in  the 
evening,  two  or  three  nights  in  the  week — 
arrange  their  stock,  and  then  curl  up  and 
go  to  sleep  on  the  soft  edge  of  the  sidewalk 
(next  the  river)  amongst  the  stephanotis  and 

6 


tuberoses — the  perfume  kindly  coming  in  at 
my  open  window,  all  night  long. 

I  can  nearly  touch  the  heads  of  the  passers- 
by  from  my  window-seat;  the  river  is  always 
beautiful  and  the  trees. 

I  am  as  happy  as  I  ever  hope  to  be,  these 
times ;  all  day  long,  from  9  till  5,  I  draw  from 
the  Greek  marbles  in  the  Louvre.  Think  of 
it !  These  long  summer  days  I  work  amongst 
the  most  beautiful  things  in  the  great  cool 
galleries !  The  tourists  are  more  or  less  of 
a  nuisance,  but  I  don’t  think  of  them  now— - 
I  don’t  even  see  them. 

Last  night,  W.  K.  and  I  sat  in  the  gardens 
of  the  Luxembourg,  talked  of  many  things, 
and  saw  the  great  pale  moon  rise  from  behind 
the  trees — golden  clouds  still  in  the  sky,  the 
sun  just  set,  the  air  full  of  the  scents  of 
flowers  and  moist  lawns.  What  a  thing  it  is 
to  live  and  to  feel — to  know  all  that  is  best 
and  beautiful  in  life — and  there  is  much.  It 
only  makes  the  whole  business  of  life  more 
of  a  puzzle  though — for  if  we  are  conscious 
of  what  is  beautiful,  we  feel  with  double 
force,  what  is  not :  but,  taking  it  all  round,  it’s 
a  fine  thing  to  live. 

I’m  in  a  queer  muddled  up  condition;  this 
going  to  England  and  finding  how  I  have 
broken  away  from  the  husks  of  religion,  of 
suppression,  has  made  me  desire  to  get  away 
from  all  that  I  am  unable  to  see  clearly  is  of 
service  to  me:  to  start  afresh,  and,  through 
life  and  work,  to  arrive  at  what  is  essential. 
I  see  no  other  way. 


7 


Aug.,  1897.  Till  you  come,  B.,  I  shall  work  on  from 
the  Greeks  and  the  Japs — long,  cool,  quiet 
days  in  the  Louvre:  I  am  as  happy  as  I  ever 
hope  to  be.  And  yet  it  will  be  with  intense 
eagerness  that  I  shall  go  south,  to  try  again 
my  luck  with  the  brush — a  thing  I  feel  I 
understand  now,  as  I  never  have  before. 
Working  this  little  has  done  me  good  and 
largely  increased  my  interest  in  the  technical 
side  of  painting.  My  drawing  comes  on  well, 
I  think ;  I  am  trying  for  construction  and 
beauty  of  line,  swinging  things  in,  in  as  large 
a  way  as  possible,  aiming  at  a  flowing  long 
line  and  always  thinking  of  design.  I  can’t 
imagine  how  I  could  have  been  so  blind  to  the 
Japanese  before :  they  take  me  off  my  feet ! 
What  pleases  me  most  is,  that  all  this  seeing 
does  not  disturb  my  own  outlook.  I  work 
from  9  till  5  in  the  galleries,  with  an  occa¬ 
sional  short  break  for  a  look  at  Giorgione’s 
“Fete  Champetre.”  How  the  name  brings 
back  the  fete  at  Burlingame — than  which  I 
have  never  seen  anything  more  beautiful.  It 
has  been  a  wet  Sunday;  I  have  spent  the 
morning  writing  and  reading;  now  the  sky  is 
intense  blue,  the  colour  clean  and  beautiful. 
The  river  flows  by  outside  and  the  trees 
against  the  window  move  briskly  in  the  cool 
breeze.  Life  is  very  good.  The  vintage  is 
close  upon  us,  as  with  you ;  would  that  you 
were  here.  Sometimes  I  gasp  aloud  for 
California,  but  I’m  happy  here. 

The  Valasquez  in  the  National  Gallery 
were  stunners,  but  lacking  the  exquisite 
sensitive  painting  of  the  Whistler  “Mother.” 
It  was  a  healthier  sense  of  painting,  a  more 

8 


robust  way  of  seeing  than  Whistler’s  that 
Valesquez  had:  but  not  more  beautiful, 
though,  it  may  be,  more  splendid.  Manet  is 
a  corker !  What  a  healthy,  out-of-door  sort  of 
painting  his  is !  That  nude  woman  and 
negress  in  the  Luxembourg!  there  never  was 
more  splendid  painting — never  such  joy  in 
the  manipulation  of  tools.  It  was  this  love 
of  paints  and  brushes  that  drove  him  to  ex¬ 
pression,  not  the  beauty  of  life;  I  would  not 
call  him  an  artist,  but  to  painters  and  all  who 
have  the  painter’s  instinct,  Manet  must  ever 
be  a  god.  The  Greek  marbles !  the  Japanese 
things !  Holy  smoke !  they  understood 
arrangement !  I’m  going  to  have  an  easel 
in  the  Louvre  and  draw  just  like  dam  crazy, 
till  you  get  here ! 

Of  the  men  of  1830,  they  are  poorly  repre¬ 
sented  :  one  lovely  Corot ;  two,  not  altogether 
lovely;  a  nice  Rousseau,  as  you  know:  “The 
Gleaners”  of  Millet — -but  what  a  disappoint¬ 
ing  business  these  minor  men  are!  Millet’s 
colour  and  technique  are  rank — but  it’s  great 
work,  all  the  same.  I  feel  as  I  compare  the 
Chevannes  decoration  with  the  broken  fresco 
by  Botticelli,  that  C.’s  colour  sense  is  not  a 
great  one  and  that  his  sense  of  painting  is  nil ; 
but  you  bet  he  knows  what  decoration  is.  But 
these  same  things  of  Botticelli’s — — ! 

I  was  never  so  happy  in  my  work,  never 
so  sure  of  its  being  worth  while,  as  since  I 
got  here.  This  is  my  programme :  a  thorough 
study  of  the  Greeks,  of  the  Japanese,  of 
Giorgione,  of  Whistler  (for  painting)— the 
two  first,  mainly.  I’m  going  to  get  solid  with 
the  marbles,  the  Japanese  and  the  old  Italians. 
9 


My  head  and  eyes  are  straightening  out,  after 
my  accident,  and  pretty  nearly  time,  too. 

I  am  not  doing  the  orthodox  things  in  the 
Louvre :  I  go  around  and  find  the  beautiful 
things,  like  those  joyous  ladies  with  tam¬ 
bourines  and  cymbals,  on  the  great  vases,  and 
try  to  get  their  joy  “into  my  stomach”  (as 
K.  does  with  nature).  This  afternoon  I  spent 
making  a  drawing  from  a  water  colour  by 
Masanobu,  such  a  swishingly  swell  arrange¬ 
ment.  Golly !  how  these  great  Japanese 
knew !  There  is  a  giant  thing  of  the  sea,  fine 
in  colour,  by  ITokousai — an  arrangement  by 
Outamaro,  the  back  of  a  woman’s  head,  the 
hair  black,  and  a  child.  Gosh ! !  Then  a 
beautiful,  beautiful  composition  by  Kiyonaga, 
three  girls  on  a  balcony,  with  the  sea  beyond. 
What  artists  they  were  ! 

I  have  now  no  doubt  about  my  own  work : 
it  is  just  a  matter  of  time  till  I  get  my  brush 
thoroughly  under  control ;  I  shall  do  land¬ 
scape  at  least  of  a  pretty  decent  kind — and  it’s 
bigger  things  than  that  I’m  aiming  at.  .  .  . 

If  I  had  a  wish,  what  do  you  think  I  would 
wish  for?  Nothing  less  than  the  physique  of 

Miss - ;  what  work  one  could  get  through 

if  one  was  built  that  way. 

When  I  get  back,  I’m  going  off  to  the  wilds 
at  once :  I  think  I  shall  try  to  get  a  room 
over  at  Point  Bonita,  up  in  the  old  lighthouse, 
and  work  like  mad.  I’m  making  hay  now, 
but  just  about  a  year  ahead  I  always  see  a 
quiet  strip  of  life,  where  there  are  no  physical 
disturbances  and  no  interruptions :  the  sort 
of  life  led  by  Marius  after  the  death  of 

io 


Flavian.  But  this  strip  of  fair  water  ought 
to  be  within  reach  of  my  bark  now,  if  it  is 
ever  to  be,  and  sometimes  I  feel  that  I  am 
there,  as  I  work  through  the  long,  quiet  days 
in  the  Louvre.  I  know,  two  years  hence,  I 
shall  have  no  doubt  about  my  having  been 
entirely  happy  in  Paris. 

I  suppose  it  is  just  part  of  the  game,  and, 
until  we  can  live  quite  simply  and  uncon¬ 
sciously,  the  great  happiness  of  our  lives 
must  seem  always  to  be  somewhere  in  the 
future . 

This  painting  pictures  to  suit  a  low-minded 
public!  These  painters  are  as  clever  as  the 
dickens,  but  what  is  cleverness  good  for  but 
the  picking  of  pockets? 

About  our  walk.  We  left  Paris  by  train  for  Sept.,  1897. 
Vernon,  a  village  midway  between  this  and 
Rouen.  We  wanted  to  hear  Vienne  “open  the 
organ,”  if  that’s  the  right  way  to  put  it,  at  the 
church  of  Notre  Dame  de  Bonsecours  (a  gin¬ 
gerbread  and  tinsel  construction  on  the  out¬ 
skirts  of  Rouen),  so  we  started  an  hour 
after  the  service  at  St.  Sulpice. 

It  was  good  to  see  the  open  country  again, 
after  all  the  weeks  in  the  city :  and  such  a 
beautiful  country,  this  north  of  France,  is. 

The  walk  from  Vernon,  through  an  open, 
moonlit  valley  to  Presagny,  was  a  thing  to  stay 
with  one  forever:  the  air  was  sharp,  the  road 
hard  under  foot  and  the  landscape  spread, 
great  and  simple,  in  the  dim  yet  clear  light  of 
the  moon— the  river,  here  and  there,  showing 
beneath  us,  for  we  were  rather  higher  than 
the  floor  of  the  valley. 


At  Presagny,  we  found  all  we  could  wish 
for,  and  the  pleasure  of  waking  next  morning 
with  the  singing  of  birds  in  the  apple  trees — 
the  clear,  cold  September  air — all  within 
reach  of  the  senses,  was  great. 

After  breakfast  we  struck  out  briskly;  the 
hour  was  early  and  the  air  keen,  the  sky  clear 
and  blue.  All  this  French  country  is  beau¬ 
tiful  :  the  one  thing  I  most  noted  in  it,  was  a 
certain  elegance  which  even  the  most  dilapi¬ 
dated  and  humble  villages  retain.  All  places 
spoke  of  care  and  love :  the  people  themselves 
seeming  simple  and  good,  taking  life  as  it 
comes,  without  complaint  and  without  ques¬ 
tion.  One  sees  plainly  what  it  was  that  made 
Millet  paint  “The  Man  with  the  Hoe,”  for  in 
all  of  the  faces  (perhaps  more  in  the  women 
than  in  the  men)  there  is  a  terrible  sternness, 
as  if  life  were  but  one  long  struggle;  when¬ 
ever  one  looks  at  the  soil  upon  which  they 
live,  there  is  little  doubt  about  the  struggle. 
The  strange  thing  is,  that  in  the  midst  of  the 
strife  and  stress,  they  still  take  thought  and 
give  the  time  to  do  things  carefully,  for  the 
sake  of  their  children  and  their  children’s 
children.  It  is  this  that  makes  the  French 
life  beautiful ;  no  conscious  reaching  after 
“the  beauty  that  has  come  in  again,”  but 
just  a  great  reverence  for  the  home  and  the 
land  where  they  and  their  fathers  were  born. 
The  beauty  that  springs  from  this,  is  quite 
apart  from  “the  maid  and  the  violet-shade” — 
and  it  is  healthy  and  sweet. 

Vienne’s  playing  was  great,  and  one  thing 
took  me  back  bodily,  to  the  church  in  Oak¬ 
land.  Vienne  is  charming,  quite  different 

12 


from  Widor— the  latter  being  iron  all  through, 
appearing  to  have  complete  control  of  every 
faculty  and  utterly  apart  from  the  world  at 
large;  Vieijsne  is  the  sort  of  man  to  make  a 
good  friend,  very  fine  and  sympathetic  in 
construction,  I  imagine.  Both  men  strike  one 
as  being  entirely  wrapped  up  in  their  work 
and,  like  most  true  artists,  simple  and  gener¬ 
ous  where  their  art  is  concerned. 


Yesterday  morning  I  went  up  to  the  Oct.,  1897. 
Luxembourg:  I  saw  with  fresh  pleasure  the 
big  Manet  and  the  Whistler.  There  is  a  great 
quantity  of  rubbish  in  the  gallery,  but  one 
always  comes  back  with  new  joy  to  these 
two  men.  W.  came,  and  we  walked  down  to 
St.  Sulpice,  a  short  walk,  through  the  sharp 
air.  How  I  love  this  clear,  cold  weather  that 
we  have  had  lately — one  could  not  have  better 
weather  for  work:  the  sky  blue,  the  trees  a 
golden  purple,  still  holding  some  leaves :  and 
men  and  women,  here  and  there,  selling  vio¬ 
lets,  which  I  never  can  resist — they  so  take 
me  back  to  Piedmont.  At  St.  Sulpice,  the 
Archbishop  of  London  was  bossing  the  show, 
and  they  were  to  sing  Widor’s  mass  for  two 
organs.  It  was  out  of  sight !  I  wish  you 
might  have  heard  it  and  the  thing  he  played, 
the  first  movement  from  the  Sixth.  They 
have  the  full  choir  now,  and  what  a  joy  it  is 
to  listen! 

I  have  read  “Tess.”  The  realism  of  the 
whole  thing  leaves  one  seared  and  in  misery, 
that  such  things  are  real;  that  such  injustice 
is  possible,  is  almost  beyond  conception.  It 

13 


seems  to  me  that  it  was  Hardy’s  keen  sense 
of  this  injustice  that  drove  him  to  writing 
this  book :  to  me,  it  will  always  be  great  on 
account  of  the  force  with  which  he  has  stated 
his  indignation  at  a  state  of  affairs  for  which 
both  men  and  women  are  responsible.  Bierce, 
on  the  other  hand,  writes  without  any  such 
end  as  Hardy  uses  realism  for.  B.  seems  a 
man  devoid  of  the  sense  of  beauty;  devoid  of 
creative  force,  but  with  a  marvelous  sense  of 
words  and  an  analytical  power  that  is 
satirical  and  morbid. 

My  eyes  are  better,  but  not  what  I  would 
wish ;  my  headaches  have  taken  wing  and 
my  spirits  are  well  back. 

And  now  I  am,  at  last,  looking  out  for 

- .  How  glad  I  shall  be  to  see  him,  I 

can’t  realize,  myself.  To  have  a  few  friends 
such  as  he  is,  would  be  reward  enough  for  hav¬ 
ing  lived,  if  one  were  to  fail  of  all  else. 

I  am  staying  with  W.  He  is  very  kind;  a 
fine  fellow  down  to  the  soles  of  his  feet. 

Will  you  remember  me  to  your  mother? 
I  think  of  her  sometimes  as  I  saw  her  that 
last  night.  Whistler  is  the  only  living  man 
who  could  have  painted  her.  He  seems  to 
me,  more  and  more,  one  of  the  greatest  artists, 
and  perhaps  the  greatest  painter,  I  know. 


Nov.,  1897.  This  little  room  of  W.’s  is  very  pleasant: 

all  tidy,  with  a  bright  fire,  and  I  am  sitting 
up  in  the  neat  little  soldier  bed,  writing  on 
that  painting  of  mine,  the  one  of  the  big  hill 
and  the  eucalyptus  tree  and  the  little  houses 
and  the  stream  in  the  foreground — the  motive 

14 


that  came  from  behind  your  house.  Just  at 
present  things  are  more  convenient  here  than 
at  my  house,  where  the  workmen  are,  still. 
We  moved  back,  when,  for  no  reason  that  I 
can  trace,  I  caught  cold.  We  decided  it 
would  be  better  for  me  over  here.  The  last 
time  I  had  a  cold  was  at  the  end  of  December 
last  year;  and  I  lay  looking  on  the  hills, 
away  up  beyond  the  Requa  house.  My  own 
hills !  How  glad  I  shall  be  to  get  back ;  but 
I  must  learn  to  drawn  first.  During  the  past 
fortnight  I  have  been  working  at  Carla- 
rossi’s :  and  as  it  is  scarcely  light  when  I  rise 
in  the  morning,  there  is  not  much  time  to 
write,  for  I  am  resting  my  eyes  in  the  even¬ 
ing,  after  the  long  day’s  drawing.  I  have 
had  bad  luck  since  I  have  been  in  Paris,  but 
I  said  all  along  I  wouldn’t  growl  if  they 
would  leave  me  my  eyes. 

It  has  been  a  good  fortnight;  spent  within 
dirty  green  walls,  covered  with  the  scrapings 
of  many  palettes,  with  clever  and  stupid 
drawings,  and  in  company  of  so  many  good- 
natured  and  otherwise,  amongst  the  crowd  call¬ 
ing  themselves  “art  students”— students  so  far 
from  beautiful  in  themselves,  that  one  wonders 
what  their  works  will  be. 

I  have  just  read  “Vain  Fortune,”  by 
George  Moore:  another  of  the  kind  I  don’t 
care  for;  just  a  handful  of  unhappy  lives, 
held  up  for  inspection— a  book  devoid  of  any¬ 
thing  beautiful,  it  seems  to  me . 

You  say  that,  after  all,  it  is  the  composer 
and  creator  who  have  the  good  time;  but  I 
am  convinced  that  the  only  real  and  enduring 
happiness  comes  from  the  consciousness  that 
i'5 


we  are  of  use — and  that  we  are  giving 
pleasure.  I  have  been  feeling  this  more 
clearly  of  late,  on  account  of  a  little  thing 
that  happened  not  so  long  ago.  W.  and 
I,  in  a  condition  of  concentrated  blues, 
had  gone  for  a  walk  to  the  top  of  Mont¬ 
martre.  The  day  was  grey  and  life  looked 
empty  enough  to  me ;  I  had  been  twice 
to  the  oculist  and,  as  Huck  Finn  said  of 
his  prayers,  “Nuthin’  come  of  it.”  It  began 
to  drizzle,  after  that  to  rain  steadily,  so  on 
our  way  back  we  took  refuge  in  the  Church 
of  La  Trinitie.  Here,  in  the  gloom  of  the 
autumn  evening,  they  were  preparing  for  a 
funeral :  the  big  church,  all  hung  in  black, 
was  very  dark,  and,  between  one  thing  and 
another,  I  put  in  some  good  solid  wishes  that 
it  was  my  funeral. 

In  the  midst  of  this,  a  tottering  old  woman 
asked  me  to  help  her  down  the  steps  upon 
which  we  stood,  and  all  I  regretted  was  that 
there  were  so  few  steps,  for  I  felt  entirely 
happy  for  some  time — for  some  days  after : — 
and  later,  talking  about  selfishness  and  unhap¬ 
piness  with  W.  K.,  I  mentioned  this  incident, 
and  he  said  at  the  time  he  had  envied  me 
very  much. 

I  say  to  myself :  “The  architect,  the  doctor, 
are  really  of  use  in  the  world” — and  then  I 
recall  certain  little  paintings  of  Corot’s,  not 
much  bigger  than  one’s  hand,  that  have  made 
the  world  more  beautiful ;  certain  little  verses 
that  have  done  as  much  for  me,  and  the 
bigger  things  that  you  and  W.  have  played 
— and  so  I  am  content  and  happy  to  go  on 
and,  if  necessary,  do  nothing  more  than  paint 

1 6 


THE  VALLEY:  PIEDMONT 
1895 


little  pictures.  In  this  day  of  realism,  we 
who  feel  the  beauty  of  life,  are  just  as  neces¬ 
sary  as  the  physician  or  the  architect  or  the 
teacher.  We,  as  surely,  are  provided  to  keep 
the  life  of  the  world  sweet.  All  this  is  fine 
to  think  of  and  helps  to  keep  one  happy  in 
one’s  work.  I  remember  well  our  talking 
on  this  subject,  as  we  came  home,  after  that 
walk  which  I  enjoyed  so  much.  Heavens! 
how  fine  it  is  to  be  out  of  doors,  and  how 
much  more  we  are  ourselves  there  than  in 
drawing-rooms. 

I  can’t  tell  you  of  the  beauty  of  Paris,  now, 
for  all  that  I  feel  it  so  keenly.  The  gardens, 
as  I  go  to  or  come  from  the  class,  will  always 
remain  clear  and  distinct  in  my  memory:  the 
bare  trees,  purple  against  the  full  golden  blue 
of  the  evening  sky — here  and  there  a  few 
radiant  leaves, — the  ample  green  of  the  lawns, 
the  swing  of  the  gravel  walks  and  all  the 
world,  poor  and  rich,  rejoicing  in  the  good 
weather;  and  fat,  fluffy  pigeons  coming  with 
condescension  to  be  fed,  while  the  blackbirds 
and  the  thrushes  in  the  tops  of  the  horse- 
chestnuts  whistle,  and  the  ducks  make  a  great 
quacking  and  flapping  in  their  little  ponds. 

I  have  the  first  volume  of  the  Book  of  Isaiah, 
in  the  new,  readable  form.  It  is  so  fine,  so 
grand.  I  must  have  them  all,  and  the  Gos¬ 
pels  ;  for  in  spite  of  Rev. -  and  Rev. 

- -  and  many  of  their  kind,  I  can  still  feel 

that  happiness  is  only  to  be  had  by  following 
the  essence  of  the  teaching  of  Christ.  I  don’t 
think  I  shall  ever  care  to  go  to  church  again, 
however  .  .  . 


Villefranche 
sur  Mer, 
Dec.,  1897. 


Thank  you  for  the  pens.  They  came  safe, 
all  but  one,  and  it,  poor  thing,  had  its  beak 
crossed;  it  reminded  me  of  a  chicken  I  once 
owned.  Owing  to  the  crossing  of  its  beak, 
its  breath  came  and  went  in  a  ponderous 
fashion.  It  was  called  “Breather.” 

I  have  been  having  such  a  good  time,  lately, 
at  the  life  class ;  but  the  drawing  is  fearfully 
hard  work.  Still,  I  am  going  to  stay  with 
it  till  it  comes.  I  must,  for  once  I  can  draw 
I  shall  do  really  big  landscape  and  heaven 
only  knows  what  else.  It  excites  me  always 
to  think  of  what  is  ahead,  once  I  can  draw 
with  freedom.  I  want  to  be  a  workman,  pure 
and  simple ;  at  present  I  am  a  labourer.  With 
just  a  month  or  two’s  painting  (for  vacation) 
I  want  to  spend  the  next  three  or  four  years 
studying  form,  and  if  I  don’t  get  somewhere 
it  won’t  be  my  fault. 

It  is  Sunday  again.  The  afternoon  is 
warm  and  summer-like,  the  sky  blue  and  the 
houses  stand  golden  through  the  trees,  with 
simple  shadows,  the  river  reflecting  it  all,  with 
here  and  there  a  break  of  blue  or  gold  upon 
its  surface;  then  the  bare  trees  just  outside 
my  window — and  you  see  it  all.  It  is  very 
beautiful,  and  a  thing  likely  to  hang  in  my 
mind  for  many  a  year. 


At  last  I  have  escaped  from  Paris,  and  it 
was  high  time,  for  somehow  or  other,  Paris 
and  I  don’t  get  on  well  together.  .  .  . 

It  is  grey  today,  and  my  thermometer  is 
low,  as  usual.  Yesterday  the  sun  was  warm 
and  the  air  smelled  faintly  of  Spring  flowers, 

18 


PINES  :  ST.  HOSPICE 
1897 


of  which  there  are  many.  It  is  very  good  to 
be  out  of  doors,  once  again.  It  is  not  the 
most  paintable  country  one  could  imagine :  on 
my  left,  as  I  write,  are  the  Alps ;  on  my  right, 
the  Mediterranean,  which  stretches  to  the  hori¬ 
zon  :  and  yet  it  is  not  as  beautiful  as  the  coun¬ 
try  north  of  the  Cliff  House — rather,  it’s  not  so 
paintable.  .  .  . 

Today,  it  rains  in  torrents  and  I  have  just 
finished  washing  my  brushes,  after  a  good 
morning’s  painting.  I  can  feel  it  coming ! 
I  know  now  I’ve  gone  ahead  lots,  since  I  left 
home.  But  I  am  at  present  awfully  lonely ; 
just  as  soon  as  I  get  down  to  hard  work  I 
shall  be  quite  happy  and  B.  has  promised  to 
come  down  for  a  while.  I  was  a  goose  to 
come  without  a  passport — fortifications  and 
soldiers  everywhere  and  to  stumble  into  the 
error  of  sketching  these  government  works, 
would  mean  being  “run  in”  for  a  spy.  As 
it  is,  I  am  a  marked  man,  for  I  have  been 
“shooed  off”  the  government  ground  twice 
by  sentinels,  and  have  been  seen  prowling 
round  fortresses  for  miles  into  the  Alps.  My 
red  hair  and  blue  sweater  and  little  Chinese 
blouse,  are  distinctive,  to  say  nothing  of  always 
having  a  sketch-book  or  paints  along.  So 
who  knows.  I  may  be  taken  and  shot ! 

Death  seems  peculiarly  repulsive,  here  in 
France.  In  this  strange  little  town,  I  beheld 
in  the  drizzle,  yesterday,  a  bedraggled  funeral 
procession,  composed  of  dirty  little  Italian 
girls,  a  wooden  crucifix  in  the  front,  after  it 
a  chanting  priest  in  dirty  linen,  a  boy  with  a 
candle,  and  then  a  number  of  small  girls, 
carrying  a  little  coffin.  It  was  dismal  in  the 
19 


extreme  and  I  pray  that  it  may  be  my  lot  to 
die  in  California,  and  amongst  friends. 

I  have  read  “The  Well  Beloved”  by  Hardy, 
lately:  not  so  desperately  serious  as  “Tess,” 
it  interested  me  greatly  on  account  of  its 
bearing  on  the  question  of  the  artist’s  marry¬ 
ing.  It  was  the  misfortune  of  this  hero,  to 
be  constantly  falling  head  over  heels  into 
the  depths  of  love,  and  then,  inevitably,  he 
would  find  at  the  climax,  that  his  “well  be¬ 
loved”  had  flitted,  and  he  was  left  with  a 
lady  on  his  hands. 

The  true  artist,  it  seems  to  me,  is  born 
(whether  for  good  or  ill)  with  the  one  desire 
before  which  all  else  falls  away  and  becomes 
secondary.  This  desire  is  to  grasp  the  perfect, 
which  always  seems  to  be  just  around  the 
corner.  In  a  wild-goose  chase  of  this  kind, 
I  am  as  good  as  sure,  that  marriage  must 
be  only  a  complication :  for  if  the  chase  goes 
on,  the  one  who  is  not  the  artist  (man  or 
woman)  suffers,  and  if  the  chase  ceases,  dis¬ 
content  must  come  of  it,  to  the  artist — and 
one  will  say  to  the  other  “Look  at  all  I 
have  given  up  for  you !”  You  understand 
when  I  say  “artist,”  I  mean  the  “genu-ine 
article.”  I  may  be  all  wrong  in  this. 


St.  Jean,  We  left  Villefranche  yesterday,  in  a  whirl 
Jan.,  1898.  of  wind  and  rain,  for  this  little  village  farther 
along  the  coast  toward  Monte  Carlo. 

It  is  a  clean,  gusty  morning:  the  sea,  all 
blue  and  green  and  broken  with  white  surf, 
stretches  away  from  below  the  window,  to 
meet  the  grey  sky,  which  the  sun  breaks  in  a 

20 


sort  of  petulant  way.  To  the  left,  the  cliffs 
of  Monaco  rise  with  a  solemn  dignity  and 
splendour.  They  bring  back  with  vividness 
and  pleasure,  the  coast  cliffs  of  Marin  County : 
but  they  lack  the  great  beauty  of  line  that 
pervades  the  Californian  hills  and  they  are 
also  less  human.  B.  arrived  on  Christmas 
eve,  and  we  spent  a  happy  day,  loafing  about 
the  very  beautiful  town  of  Nice.  Such  a 
colour  as  the  town  has,  all  rose  and  gold  and 
a  great  expanse  of  sea. 

I  have  at  last  begun  to  do  things:  up  to 
this  I  have  been  shaking  the  dust  of  the  schools 
from  off  my  feet.  Nevertheless,  injurious 
as  the  schools  are,  I  intend  to  work  the  next 
two  years  in  the  life-class  in  San  Francisco; 
but  I  am  going  to  model  and  draw  with  the 
brush,  rather  than  with  the  point,  for  all  my 
instinct  is  for  the  former  tool  and  I  will  get 
what  I  want  sooner,  that  way. 

I  am  working  upon  a  canvas :  a  line  of 
snow-capped  Alps  against  the  gold-blue  sky 
of  evening;  this  line  comes  close  to  the  top 
of  the  canvas:  then  a  spot  of  gold  light  on 
the  lower  range  of  hills  in  shadow :  below  this, 
one  great  blue  shadow  fills  the  valley  and  falls 
to  a  low  line  of  grass-covered  foreground, 
from  which  two  or  three  slight,  wind-blown 
pines  rise  from  either  side,  into  the  golden 
sunlight. 

There  is  an  old  salon  man  of  sixty,  at  work 
down  here;  strong  as  an  ox  and  much  more 
vulgar,  but  very  amusing.  Evidently,  he  is  one 
of  the  acknowledged  men,  has  exhibited  at  the 
salon  for  forty  years  and  is  all  be-medaled.  I 
don’t  care  for  his  work,  though  it  is  the  kind 
21 


that  counts,  in  Paris.  He  asked  me  to  show 
him  mine,  and  so  I  did.  It  sort  of  jolted  him ; 
nevertheless,  when  his  wife  said,  “C’est  drolc 
cat "  she  got  it  in  the  neck,  so  to  speak:  and 
our  landlady,  also,  for  asking,  “What  the  devil 
is  it?”  It  was  funny  to  hear  him  defend  the 
canvas. 

.  .  .  I  did  not  tell  you,  though,  what  has 

happened  since  I  wrote;  how  the  silver-grey 
almond  trees  against  the  grey-blue  sea,  have 
starred  themselves  with  rosy-white  until  now 
they  are  heavy  masses  of  bloom,  broken  with 
the  silver  of  the  branches  and  flecked  with  the 
green  of  another  Spring.  And  the  birds  are 
returning  from  some  Winter  resort  of  their 
own,  perhaps  Africa,  which  is  not  so  far  away. 
One  hears  them,  now  and  then  of  a  morn¬ 
ing,  in  the  amandiez — flowering  outside  the 
window. 

Last  night,  dark  and  cloudy,  we  walked 
along  the  cliffs  of  the  little  peninsula  of  St. 
Hospice.  The  sea,  quite  black  in  the  darkness, 
broke  very  splendidly  against  the  rocks,  far 
below,  and  the  warm  wind  quietly  moved  the 
pines.  .  .  . 

I  am  being  urged,  before  I  go  back,  to  show 
my  work  in  London  and  New  York — but, 
heavens !  I  have  no  intention  of  doing  that,  for 
years  to  come  !  To  think  of  that  kind  of  thing, 
success,  reputation,  is  worse  than  foolishness 
and  fatal  to  good  work.  No,  I  am  a  student 
and  must  remain  one  till  I  graduate  by  right  of 
technical  attainment.  My  road  is  clear  enough  : 
I  know  entirely  what  I  want  to  do,  and  that  is 
more  than  most  men  of  my  age  can  say.  I  am 
now,  too,  in  the  clutch  of  school  influence — no, 

22 


not  school  influence  at  all— but  the  persistent 
study  of  form  has  made  me  see,  out  of  doors, 
first  and  last,  form  (which  is  right  enough  so 
long  as  one  does  not  allow  it  to  disturb  one). 
By  much  drawing  and  painting  I  shall  come 
back  to  my  former  perception  and  then  too, 
be  master  of  my  tools. 

I  hope  your  work  goes  to  your  liking: 
though  as  you  are  an  artist,  it  is  quite  sure  not 
to  be  doing  so :  it  never  does,  till  we  become 
careless;  but  it  is  all  fun,  of  a  bitter  enough 
kind  sometimes.  I,  in  the  dream  of  open  air 
and  the  country,  in  a  Paris  atelier,  told  you  that 
once  I  knew  how  to  draw,  it  would  all  be  plain 
sailing  and  joy.  Well,  I  know  now  I  was 
wrong,  dead  wrong.  I  know  now  that  to  do 
what  I  want  to  do,  will  mean  pains  and  aches 
of  a  perpetual  kind.  But  we  all  choose  the 
pain ! 


I  enjoyed  greatly  the  journey  through  Italy,  Paris, 
from  the  French  Riviera.  After  the  landscape  Feb->  lS9$- 
I  had  tried  so  hard  and  vainly  to  paint,  the 
landscape  of  Italy  sings  a  new  song  in  my 
memory.  It  is  as  though  the  parts  I  love  best 
in  California,  Piedmont  and  Marin,  had  been 
lived  in  and  tended  for  many  generations,  by  a 
race  loving  the  soil  and  life  and  caring  about 
all ;  and  I  think  of  it  now,  the  country  around 
Genoa  and  Padua  and  Verona,  as  of  the  colour 
of  precious  stones  and  of  fruit  ripened  under  a 
full  sun. 

We  had  really  very  good  fun  getting  to  Ven¬ 
ice;  we  took  slow  trains  (and  the  fastest  are 
slow  enough),  and  at  every  station  we  got  off 

23 


Paris, 

March, 

1898. 


and  ran  through  the  town,  and  then  stopped  the 
night  in  some  town  of  interest.  Of  all  the 
beautiful  things  I  saw,  the  front  of  St.  Mark’s 
at  Venice,  in  the  late  evening  sunlight,  was  the 
swellest  by  ever  so  much. 

It  is  still  all  a  blur — more  in  my  heart  than 
in  my  head,  I  think.  And  the  many  churches 
with  their  full  warm  colour  and  lavish  old 
gilding,  are  all  one  with  the  landscape — the 
sedate  and  quiet  people,  still  so  beautiful. 

It  has  cleared  my  road  for  me,  and  I  see  quite 
plainly  where  I  am  going.  Withal,  I  come 
back  a  much  humbler  person. 


Yesterday  was  Mi  Careme,  and  there  was 
a  great  to-do  on  the  Boulevards.  We  were 
well  in  it :  all  afternoon  in  the  thick  of  the 
crowd,  trying  how  much  confetti  we  could  hold 
in  our  eyes  and  still  see.  If  I  close  my  eyes 
today,  I  see  things  like  impressionistic  land¬ 
scapes,  made  of  spots  of  paper  of  different 
bright  colors. 

There  was  great  excitement  on  the  Boul. 
Montmartre;  it  was  while  the  cavalcade 
passed  that  a  lot  of  people  in  the  windows  and 
balconies  along  the  route  threw  oranges  and 
candy  and  biscuits  to  the  crowd  below :  they 
also  let  down  bottles  of  champagne,  which  they 
would  keep  dangling  over  the  heads  of  the 
crowd  in  a  way  that  excited  them  wildly. 
Sooner  or  later  the  bottle  would  be  captured 
by  some  one  endowed  by  Providence  with  a 
long  reach.  There  were  others,  high  up  in  the 
buildings,  who  threw  down  oranges,  and  these 
fitted  very  quick  some  heads  in  the  crowd, 

24 


clothing  the  owners  in  a  thin,  transparent  yel¬ 
low  and  a  glowing  indignation,  which  mani¬ 
fested  itself  in  eggs, — the  spectators  in  the 
windows  having  to  retire,  as  they  had  notions 
of  their  own  as  to  how  eggs  should  be  taken. 

The  cavalcade  was  gay,  in  the  grey-blue  of 
the  Grande  Boulevards — the  high,  piping 
colour  of  paper  roses  and  fancy  costumes  be¬ 
came  pearl-like  and  gentle,  en  masse ;  the 
chestnut  trees,  astir  once  again  with  breaking 
green,  were  full  of  long  streamers  of  coloured 
papers :  the  roadway  and  footpaths  were 
ablaze  with  confetti :  and  all  Paris  was  out  to 
see  it,  and  like  only  Parisians,  they  were  wildly 
gay  without  any  sign  of  ill  temper. 

Yes,  as  you  say,  the  Zola  trial  was  a  farce ; 
the  Parisian  men  are  N.  G. — small,  excitable, 
vicious;  but  for  the  French  of  the  Provinces 
I  have  a  profound  admiration.  They  are  a 
simple,  sober,  brave  people,  taking  life  as  they 
meet  it,  without  complaint.  .  .  . 

Here,  too,  the  whole  business  of  the  Latin 
Quarter  is  so  deadly  tiresome  and  such  a 
to-do  is  made  about  the  very  unimportant 
matter  of  painting,  that  one  longs  for  the  quiet 
of  home,  where,  if  such  things  are  less  under¬ 
stood,  they  are  much  healthier. 

I  hope  your  work  goes  to  your  pleasure ; 
the  susceptibility  to  discouragement  is  part  of 
the  price  we  pay  for  the  privilege  of  being 
artists:  but  it’s  worth  while  and  perhaps  we 
are  equally  susceptible  to  reaction,  from  dis¬ 
couragement  to  hope.  At  present  I  feel  happy 
about  my  work.  I  have  determined  to  send 
nothing  to  the  exhibitions  for  a  year  or  two ; 
there  is  no  hurry  and  I  wonder,  every  now  and 
25 


Paris, 
r.,  1898. 


then,  whether  they  are  worth  while.  When  I 
saw  the  N.  Y.  exhibitions  and  realized  that 
they  were  nothing  more  than  large  editions  of 
the  Hopkins’  show,  that  the  Royal  Academy 
was  the  same  thing,  larger  still — I  began  to 
feel  that  it  all  counts  nothing.  However,  it 
bothers  me  very  little,  the  matter  of  showing; 
what  I  am  glad  about  is,  that  I  shall  have  such 
a  fine  chance  to  do  things. 

.  .  .  It  is  strange  how  differently  one 

regards  life  when  one  has  a  warm  sun  and  a 
clear  sky  above  one’s  head:  and  how  out  of 
place  the  terrible  facts  of  life  are,  when  one 
encounters  them,  under  such  conditions.  There 
is  nothing  so  convincing  of  the  divine  right¬ 
ness  of  the  teaching  of  Christ,  as  His  fearless 
regarding  of  the  world  and  life :  it’s  a  wonder¬ 
ful  thing,  that  He  should  have  said  the  last 
word,  so  long  ago. 

As  to  “the  refining  influences  of  art?” — 
well,  I  don’t  know  !  I  meet  too  many  men  here 
who  have  subjected  themselves  to  the  “refin¬ 
ing  influences,”  with  no  happy  result :  men 
who  are  “refined”  (superficially)  to  the  last 
degree,  and  nothing  can  so  rouse  me  to  the 
same  pitch  of  rowdyism  and  vulgarity,  as 
these  same  lady-like  gentlemen.  The  fact  is 
that,  except  to  the  healthy  minded,  who  see 
things  in  fairly  true  relation,  art  is  a  snare  and 
a  delusion :  Stevenson  pointed  out  that  the 
calling  of  the  artist  is  to  give  pleasure,  the 
calling  of  other  men  is  to  work — often 
enough  to  disagreeable  work;  so  it  stands 
to  reason,  that  unless  at  the  bottom  of 

26 


his  heart  the  artist  be  a  man — of  serious  mind 
and  with  an  eye  quick  to  see  his  responsibility 
in  life,  he  inevitably  becomes  what  many  good 
women  miscall  “refined” — -and  avoid:  what 
the  true  woman  asks  for  is  manliness  in  men, 
just  as  a  man  detests  the  masculine  qualities  in 
a  woman.  If  any  one  asked  me  what  kind  of 
a  man  /  like,  I  would  say:  “The  man  who 
knows  the  world  and  loves  his  mother” :  that 
man  is  not  likely  to  go  far  wrong.  Life  is  full 
of  pitfalls  to  the  ignorant,  and  the  “sheltered 
life”  is  the  cause  of  much  unhappiness  : — many 
failures. 

...  I  doubt  if  art  turns  often  the  thoughts 
toward  God,  except  as  the  mind  and  heart, 
perceiving,  sees  another  facet  of  His  great 
good-will,  in  having  made  the  world  beautiful. 
In  a  world  where  the  imposed,  conditions  for 
every  creature  coming  into  it,  are  such  as  to 
make  him  more  and  more  the  Materialist,  there 
must  be  some  antidotes  for  life:  and  art,  it 
seems  to  me,  is  one  of  them.  To  the  artist  it 
is  given  to  perceive  the  beauties  and  the  joys 
of  life — as  to  the  teacher  is  given  the  grasp 
upon  hidden  truths :  and  these,  through  the 
strength  of  their  perceptions  are  compelled  to 
give  their  visions  to  the  mass  of  the  workers : 
workers  who  have  neither  the  power  nor  the 
time  to  search  for  themselves. 


I  have  just  heard  the  “Symphonie  Pathet-  April,  1898. 
ique”  given  by  Hans  Richter.  I  am  all  of  a 
shake  still — the  theme  of  the  second  movement 
is  going  through  me,  and  the  last! — how  it 
leaves  one  sobered.  It  seems  to  me  that  he  has 
27 


*\ 


laid  bare  his  soul — a  very  great  soul — and 
after  it  the  world  looks  ordinary  and  smaller, 
and  I  am  feeling  a  strange  pity  for  all  these 
creatures  around  me  who  sit  playing  checkers 
and  discussing  art — God  help  them ! — discuss¬ 
ing  art !  After  today,  there  is  nothing  to  dis¬ 
cuss.  I  am  afraid  I  can't  write  a  decent  letter 
— this  music  has  put  a  weight  upon  me :  I  feel 
as  though  I  were  doing  someone  a  wrong: 
just  as  I  feel  when  someone  I  care  for  has  told 
me  of  some  mental  pain :  as  if  I  had  no  right 
to  be  happy — rather,  that  for  the  time  being, 
I  feel  as  if  I  should  cease  to  exist  apart  from 
the  sufferer.  It  seems  as  if  this  touch  from 
a  great  man  had  told  me  things,  intimate  and 
sacred :  although  I  haven’t  a  remote  idea  of 
what  they  are  or  what  they  mean ;  only,  I  feel 
as  if,  for  the  moment,  I  should  be  alone — for¬ 
gotten  of  myself.  The  ridiculous  desire  to 
pray,  for  the  peace  of  his  soul,  comes  upon  me, 
and  I  should  do  it  if  it  didn’t  come  upon  me 
in  just  that  way — his  soul  is  all  right! 

I  tell  myself  I  am  a  fool  to  pretend  I  feel 
like  this : — that  it  is  all  pretense :  that  it  really 
does  not  touch  me.  This  is  the  curse  of  a 
Puritan  ancestry — a  Puritan  desire  to  doubt 
one’s  self,  that  God  may  be  glorified.  Heaven 
help  that  kind  of  a  God,  and  make  me  simple. 

Heavens  and  earth !  picture  exhibitions  and 
salons !  What  worthlessness  one  finds — the 
whole  business  is  full  of  pettiness  and  desire  for 
recognition.  The  sight  of  a  drawing  by  Millet 
thrills  one  and  makes  the  rest  all  weak  and 
worthless.  The  drawing  I  think  of  is  a- slight 
sketch  of  a  shepherd-girl  seated  in  a  field : 
and  in  its  presence  the  greatest  men  of  today 

28 


are  forgotten.  There  is  something  in  it  that 
asks  one  what  all  the  talk  one  hears  here 
means :  what  all  this  scurrying  and  haste  for 
salons  mean.  Good  Lord,  to  have  done  that 
sketch !  to  have  written  a  line,  with  this  same 
great  power — that  is  what  we  students,  if  we 
have  conceit  enough,  might  strive  for,  instead 
of  thinking  of  the  crown  of  deadly  nightshade, 
with  which  the  world  crowns  those  who  pander 
to  it ! 

It  is  a  most  humbling  thing  to  have  heard 
this  symphony  of  Tschaikovsky’s :  after  this, 
I  shall  think  less  (and  heaven  knows  how  it 
has  lately  dropped  from  my  mind)  of  any 
response  to  my  work,  except  from  the  few 
friends  I  know.  Here,  even  the  men  who 
should  know  and  feel,  have  sold  what  birth¬ 
right  they  may  once  have  had,  for  a  mention  at 
the  salon. 

I  have  no  idea  yet  as  to  whether  I  shall  go 
or  stay.  I  don’t  much  care — either  will  suit 
me.  I  enjoy  the  drawing  and  think,  at  the 
same  time,  of  the  irises  in  flower  on  the  Marin 
hills  and  of  the  larks,  whistling  amongst  the 
high  eucalyptus  blossoms.  I  shall  be  glad  to 
be  there,  although  life  could  not  be  happier 
than  it  is :  and  I  thank  God  that  I  was  here  to 
hear  what  I  heard  today. 

Last  evening,  as  I  came  through  the  gardens 
of  the  Luxembourg,  in  the  glow  of  the  pale 
golden  light,  a  blackbird  with  his  breast 
against  an  unfolding  gold  and  pink  and  pale 
green  chestnut  spire,  sang  his  song  to  the 
Spring  and  the  new  moon :  and  the  silver-grey 
pigeons  sat  in  the  bare  trees  with  their  heads 
to  the  slight  April  breeze,  like  ships  at  anchor. 
29 


In  one  place,  the  rhododendrons  are  burst¬ 
ing,  gloriously,  into  purple  and  crimson  clus¬ 
ters  amidst  dark  green  leaves ;  and  the  chil¬ 
dren  play  differently:  an  intoxication  (that 
for  the  most  part,  I  fear  only  the  child  Parisian 
feels)  seems  to  be  rife  amongst  them.  It  is  the 
birthright  of  the  simple — this  joy  in  the  change 
of  the  seasons,  and  especially  this  change  from 
Winter  to  Spring. 

Is  it  going  to  be  war?  The  papers  here 
think  so;  and  here  am  I,  with  a  love  divided 
between  my  native  and  adopted  countries,  and 
feeling  that  the  one  country  I  could  really  fight 
for  is  California  (hardly  a  possibility  of  specu¬ 
lation  of  that  sort  becoming  necessary,  unless 
all  Europe  is  involved). 

We  are  exulting  in  the  fact  that  Zola  has 
won  his  appeal :  that  he  is  to  have  another 
trial.  It  is  most  unexpected. 

You  ask  why  I  couldn’t  paint  the  Riviera 
country:  I  guess  it  was  because  it  didn’t  hit 
me  hard  enough.  It  was  somewhat  spectacular 
— sharp  in  colour,  too.  It  was  the  landscape 
between  Genoa  and  Milan  that  made  me  want 
to  paint ;  however,  I  shall  paint  but  little  till 
I  am  back  in  California.  Meantime,  the  front 
of  St.  Mark’s  alone  made  the  year  worth 
while :  now,  the  symphony  today  has  doubled 
it :  and  I  have  a  considerably  better  under¬ 
standing  of  drawing,  too,  thrown  in. 


April,  1898.  Spring  has  come,  as  Stevenson  said  it  would, 
“bringing  birds  and  flowers,”  and  Paris  is  as 
gay  and  beautiful  as  it  ever  will  be — all  the 
Boulevards  green  with  newly-broken  buds — 

30 


THE  MARNE:  CHARENTON 
1898 


the  distant  buildings  swim  in  a  violet  mist, 
while  great  white  clouds  roll  in  the  deep  blue 
sky. 

Meantime  the  papers  talk  of  war  within 
twenty-four  hours,  and  ardent  American  stu¬ 
dents  form  bands  of  volunteers  and  write  many 
letters  to  the  newspapers.  There  is  one  of 
these  sitting  opposite  me  as  I  write,  and  he 
“dameth”  a  great  deal  for  his  size.  I  haven’t 
much  use  for  his  kind. 

There  is  a  great  row  here  in  the  club.  On 
the  night  of  Mi  Careme,  Madame  Mai  and  the 
girl  called  Julie,  who  both  attend  to  the  tables 
(the  former  having  been  concierge  for  years 

and  years  before  X - — —  got  his  finger  into 

the  club’s  affairs) — both,  simple,  good-hearted 
country  people,  and  hardly  looked  upon  as  ser¬ 
vants,  were  installed  in  nurse-maid  caps  at  the 
instigation  of  X — - — — ,  against  their  will  and 
against  the  wish  of  many  of  the  simpler  mem¬ 
bers  of  the  club,  who  foresaw,  truly  enough, 
various  attempts  at  running  the  club  “in  style.” 
My  main  contention  was  that  (as  Madame 
Mai  used,  in  the  past,  to  run  the  restaurant 
quite  independently,  taking  the  risks  entirely 
into  her  own  hands,  and  always  keeping  a  kind 
of  motherly  eye  out  for  the  ramshackle  set  of 
men  and  boys  who  belonged  to  the  club),  it 
was  a  mean  business  to  see  her  crowded  down 
to  the  position  of  a  common,  domestic  servant. 

Well,  we  took  off  the  caps,  covered  every¬ 
thing  with  confetti,  and  went  off  with  the  caps. 
A  meeting  of  directors  was  called:  and  forth¬ 
with  a  notice  appeared  on  the  board,  noticing 
the  irregularity  and  threatening  any  new 
offender  with  suspension.  We  tore  down  the 
3i 


notice,  took  half  of  it,  each,  and  I  promptly 
put  my  half  into  the  grand  complaint  box 
(newly  established). 

It  seems  that  this  has  jolted  the  manager 
very  hard :  and  you  may  hear,  next  letter,  that 
I  have  had  to  submit  to  the  disgrace  of  being 
“thrown  out.” 

Since  I  wrote  last,  we  have  heard  the 
“Ninth”  Symphony  conducted  by  Hans  Rich¬ 
ter,  at  the  Colonne  concert.  It  was  late  at 
night — we  had  been  dining  at  C.  F.’s,  and 
we  just  got  standing  room  for  this,  the  last 
thing  on  the  programme.  It  was  tremendous  ! 
The  parts  that  hit  me  hardest  were  after  the 
voices  (the  choir  itself  being  a  big  one)  came 
against  the  great  orchestra. 

We  have  heard,  too,  a  concert  of  badly  sung 
songs  of  Tschaikovsky’s  —  but  his  “Slavic 
March”  was  big  in  effect,  altho’  the  orchestra 
(Lamereux)  was  miserable.  The  Russian  an¬ 
them,  which  keeps  pounding  and  booming 
through  the  thing,  making  the  whole  very 
splendid.  We  heard  “Carmen,”  too,  at  the 
Opera  Comique.  The  music  was  bewitching, 
and  the  kissing,  as  I  remarked  to  W.,  was 
handsome.  There  is,  however,  something  en¬ 
raging  to  me  about  the  attenuated  movements 
of  actors ;  and  in  opera,  especially.  I  become 
quite  crazy  during  that  long  duet  in  Lohengrin, 
for  instance.  These  two  people,  singing  away 
in  the  street,  (by  no  means  dressed  for  the 
open)  and  from  time  to  time  plunging  around 
corners  and  across  the  stage,  like  cats  with  dis¬ 
jointed  tails :  while  I  wait  for  business  to  begin 
again. 

I  have  been  sketching  a  good  deal  lately, 

32 


down  at  St.  Cloud.  B.,  W.  and  I  had  a  long 
walk  down  there,  on  Sunday  afternoon : 
through  the  woods,  to  Fontenay  aux  Roses. 
The  woods  were  carpeted  with  the  beautiful 
white  anemone.  We  call  it  the  “wind-flower” 
in  England.  And  the  lesser  celandine,  with  its 
keen,  yellow,  star-like  flower  and  dark  green 
leaf,  so  clean  and  vigorous.  The  woods  were 
spotted  with  the  beautiful  wild  white  cherry  in 
flower :  all  young  green  and  white ;  the  black¬ 
birds  sang  everywhere  and  the  new  green  of 
the  chestnut  leaves  mingled  with  the  gold  of 
the  sheaths,  that  such  a  short  time  ago  en¬ 
closed  them.  In  a  little  while  the  leaves  will 
have  become  more  golden ;  the  splendid  pyra¬ 
mid-shaped  spikes  of  blossom  will  cover  the 
trees,  rosy-gold  and  purple  and  white:  and 
the  nightingales  will  sing  above  the  quiet  river 
and  in  those  great  groves  and  terraces,  that 
always  seem  to  me  so  full  of  classic  feeling. 


Your  letter  is  very  beautiful :  full  of  the  May,  1898. 
most  vivid  pictures  for  me :  It  brings  back  to 
my  mind  the  memory  of  long  days  I  have 
spent  in  the  hills — days  like  this,  when  the 
rain  fell  in  a  fine  powder  and  the  ribbons  of 
mist  garlanded  the  eucalyptus  tops. 

I  am  so  glad  to  hear  that  you  liked  that  can¬ 
vas  of  Muhrman’s.  I  never  had  a  doubt  of 
him :  not  that  I  would  place  him  amongst  the 
greatest,  by  any  means,  for  there  have  been 
so  few  really  great.  To  me  he  is  away  ahead 
of  any  man  painting  landscape  here.  The  fact 
of  the  matter  is,  that  unless  a  man  be  a  poet, 
as  Muhrman  is,  or  an  interpreter  of  character, 

33 


as  Degas  is,  there  is  little  sense  in  his  painting, 
for  apart  from  these  things,  painting  is  only- 
justified  by  its  relation  to  architecture.  Of 
course  a  man  without  gifts  is  at  liberty  to 
paint  for  his  own  amusement,  but  a  life  of 
amusement  is  hardly  the  thing  to  make  it 
worth  while  to  live ;  one  meets  men  of  this 
kind  over  here,  and  all  that  one  can  say  is, 
“God  help  them.” 

To  be  worth  anything,  there  must  be  some 
sternness  in  life:  we  must  care:  and  if  we 
do,  we  are  bound  to  suffer.  I  suppose  it  is  this 
fear  of  suffering  that  makes  the  Parisian  what 
he  is :  mean,  low  and  selfish.  I  refer  to  the 
man:  I  still  feel  that  the  woman  of  Paris  has 
splendid  and  great  qualities :  but  the  conditions 
of  life  are  all  against  her. 

It  is  noticeable  that  the  men  one  meets  here 
who  have  been  through  the  siege  and  com¬ 
mune  are  made  of  altogether  different  material 
from  the  men  of  my  age,  who  have  seen  no 
hardship.  And  the  priests  have  a  distinct  line 
drawn  amongst  them,  too,  marking  the  distinc¬ 
tion  between  the  artificial  and  esthetic  life  of 
the  town  and  the  simple  life  of  the  country — 
near  to  the  great  joys  and  sorrows  of  a  brave 
people.  And  what  a  fine  mark  this  genuine 
life  of  ready  response  makes  upon  a  man  or 
woman. 

Paris  is  sinking  low  and  all  France  is  tainted 
with  the  vice  one  knows  to  be  rife  here.  It  is  a 
pity  that  only  war  or  revolution  can  save  them 
or  bring  them  back,  or  save  that  nobility  of 
character  that  Millet  saw  in  the  peasants  of  his 
country — for  in  the  country  it  is  not  all  lost. 


34 


THE  BASIN  :  ST.  CLOUD 
1898 


I  heard  W.,  two  stories  below  me,  the  other 
night,  playing  upon  the  club  piano :  and  under 
his  hands  this  instrument  (which  I  have  come 
since  to  believe  is  misunderstood)  sang  the 
Tocata  from  the  Fifth,  so  that  I  could  have 
sworn  it  was  ’cellos  and  violins.  .  .  . 

The  war  is  a  bad  business,  and  it  is  hard  to 
get  at  the  exact  right  and  wrong  of  the  case. 

There  seems  to  be  a  necessity  for  war,  or  its 
equivalent,  to  give  men  fibre;  there  is  too 
great  a  crowd  studying  art — too  little  manli¬ 
ness  in  men  nowadays. 

We  have  had  no  good  weather  so  far  this  June,  1898. 
month-— constant  rain.  But  one  night,  at  St. 

Cloud,  I  was  rewarded  by  seeing  the  sun  go 
down,  shining  upon  the  blossoming  chestnut 
trees,  with  a  gradual  golden  bloom  and  a 
gloomy  wealth  of  colour,  in  the  great  terraced 
avenues ;  the  whole  thing  like  some  stately 
chant,  so  beautiful,  so  full  of  a  living  music 
the  colour  was — and,  oh !  as  night  fell,  and  the 
sun  sank  and  the  gold  left  the  great  trees,  with 
a  kind  of  rhythm,  the  whole  place  changed  in 
a  magical  way.  The  liquid  blue  of  the  clear 
sky  seemed  to  have  neither  beginning  nor  end : 
and  against  it  the  trees  stirred  in  the  Spring 
breeze — the  full,  wet  green  of  late  Spring,  in 
the  blue  of  the  rain-washed  sky. 

And  the  way  the  new  moon  rises  there — and 
the  blackbirds  call — and  the  way  the  silence 
falls — and  is  broken  by  another  bird,  who  an¬ 
swers  the  echo  of  his  own  voice ! 

I  can’t  describe  it,  and  so  far  I  cannot  paint 
it— -so  beautiful,  so  full  of  an  elegance  too  fine 
for  words  or  paint.  I  wonder  if  you  know  the 
35 


place?  One  dreams  of  the  concerts,  of  the 
fetes,  of  days  not  so  long  ago,  when  that  ele¬ 
gance  which  so  marks  the  whole  place  must 
have  been  echoed  in  the  beautifully  gowned 
women — who  perhaps  danced  to  the  music  of 
orchestras,  beneath  the  great  trees  of  the  park, 
with  its  lawns  and  fountains. 

As  I  write,  my  heart  is  in  the  fight  around 
Santiago,  which  must  be  in  full  swing.  From 
time  to  time  I  wish  I  was  there,  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  I  am  no  fighter,  and  have  no  convic¬ 
tion  as  to  the  right  of  it  all.  However,  God 
speed  them  and  give  us  an  end  to  it.  We  had 
news  of  the  fighting  last  night :  vague  news, 
and  I  woke  at  half  past  four  this  morning  and 
thought  of  it  all  till  I  had  to  turn  out,  in  the 
hope  of  further  information.  It  was  too  early 
to  find  papers,  so  I  hung  around  till  Notre 
Dame  opened,  at  six.  The  hour  I  spent  there, 
in  the  grey  quiet,  was  more  to  my  liking  than 
all  the  church-going  I  have  done  put  together. 

Later,  I  got  the  N.  Y.  Herald  and  read  the 
long  account  through  a  blur,  with  shivers  in 
my  bones :  and  thanked  God  that  the  men  be¬ 
haved  so  splendidly.  (That  dragging  of  God’s 
name  into  the  business  sounds  queer,  and  lands 
me  in  complications  I  do  not  undertake  to 
grapple  with.)  All  the  same,  bravery  moves 
me  as  almost  nothing  else  does,  and  the  Ameri¬ 
cans  are  behaving  in  a  fine  way. 

If  I  ever  go  a-soldiering,  it  will  be  about 
something  I  am  quite  convinced  is  worth  my 
life :  only,  I  would  pray  that  I  might  be  hit 
plump  with  a  bullet  where  I  live,  or  blown  up 
with  a  shell — for  I  have  horrors  of  outpost 

36 


duty  in  the  night,  with  Death  crawling  in  the 
brush  and  yellow  pestilence  hovering  in  the 
silence  overhead.  The  darkness  falling,  even 
upon  country  I  know  and  love,  fills  me  with 
inconceivable  terrors,  which  in  moments  of 
credulity  have  scattered  me  in  all  directions 
and  taken  in  tucks  in  my  face  and  scalp,  leav¬ 
ing  me  feeling  contracted  for  hours.  All  of 
which  leads  me  to  conclude  that  I  have  about 
struck  step  with  my  destiny,  in  the  somewhat 
childish  calling  of  a  painter. 

I  wish  I  were  home  for  many  reasons :  but 
all  the  same,  we  have  a  splendid  time.  We 
loathe  the  Parisians  now,  to  our  hearts  con¬ 
tent,  or  rather  discontent.  We  fight  on  the 
street  with  cockers  who  beat  their  horses  and 
with  the  brutes  who  drive  the  great  patient 
dray-horses  that  haul  the  quarried  stone  from 
the  quais.  Yesterday  we  put  in  a  full  after¬ 
noon  of  this  rowdy  work.  We  had  a  row  with 
two  carters :  in  the  first  we  gained  our  point 
and  compelled  the  man  to  get  another  horse; 
in  this  we  were  seconding  two  French  women, 
who  were  protesting  when  we  arrived.  As 
we  were  seeing  this  through,  another  team  was 
being  lashed  up  the  hill,  in  a  perfectly  vile  way, 
and  we  left  the  first  for  the  second  scene  of 
action.  We  settled  him,  too.  No  sooner  had 
we  reached  the  river,  when  we  saw  a  man  lash¬ 
ing  three  horses  attached  to  a  load  of  great 
blocks  of  stone,  in  a  way  that  made  us  crazy 
and  we  roared  at  him  in  unison.  The  crowd 
was  altogether  against  us,  but  by  our  interfer¬ 
ence  the  man  was  compelled  to  stop  whipping 
the  horses  and  in  consequence  he  was  unable 
to  force  the  tired  creatures  up  the  hill;  so 
37 


hurriedly  he  unhitched  them,  and  with  the 
mob  following,  calling  us  “Sale  Etrangers,”  we 
reached  a  policeman.  Everyone  swore  we 
must  be  arrested,  so  we  were,  and  were  taken 
across  the  city  to  the  police  station.  And  here 
a  curious  thing  happened.  Escorted  by  the 
policeman,  the  carter  and  his  three  horses  and 
a  huge  mob,  we  fell,  at  the  station,  right  into 
the  arms  of  a  little  man  we  used  to  sit  at  table 
with  and  who  had  told  us,  as  we  joked,  that 
if  we  got  into  trouble  to  let  him  know,  as  he 
was  connected  with  the  police.  And  now  he 
received  us  with  every  manifestation  of  affec¬ 
tion,  rising  in  his  majesty  and  saying,  “Bon 
jour,  Monsieur  Artoor.”  Bon  jour,  Monsieur 
Keen.”  The  crowd  helped  the  carter  to  make 
a  case  against  us,  but  after  leaving  our  names 
and  addresses,  we  were  allowed  to  go. 

Animals  and  women  in  Paris  are  regarded 
alike :  they  have  no  feelings  :  “their  first  duty 
is  to  work”  (as  a  damnable  little  Frenchman 
said  to  us  the  other  day).  Thank  Heaven!  I 
leave  soon.  Paris  is  become  a  nightmare ! 
The  Dreyfus  case  and  Zola :  the  way  the  police 
side  with  the  mob :  the  terrible  way  the  beasts 
of  men  treat  the  women :  I  have  absolutely  no 
good  thing  left  to  say  of  the  Parisians  I  see 
about  me  every  day.  I  think  my  early  letters 
to  you  showed  rather  a  prejudice  in  their 
favour :  there  is  none  of  that  left  now.  They 
are  in  a  wretched  state :  it  is  useless  to  look 
to  them  for  great  art  or  great  anything  else. 
We  do  not  judge  them  hastily  or  superficially 
— we  have  lived  a  year  amongst  them  now, 
not  as  most  students,  but  amongst  the  French 
themselves. 


38 


With  my  charming  relatives  here,  Paris  is 
another  place.  We  were  all  down  at  St.  Cloud 
yesterday :  1  never  knew  the  place  more  beau¬ 
tiful.  If  only  I  could  have  painted  what  I 
wanted  there!  But  it  was  no  go:  I  couldn’t 
work  it  at  all. 

From  this  on  there  will  be  a  scurrying  to  get 
good-byes  said  and  things  packed  up.  I  shall 
be  very  happy  to  find  myself  upon  the  train 
at  New  York:  then  I  shall  begin  to  feel  as  if 
I  were  really  getting  home.  I  can’t  tell  you 
how  good  it  is  to  think  of :  I  feel  as  if  I  could 
ask  no  better  place  to  spend  my  life  than  in 
Piedmont  and  the  neighborhood. 


I  am  back  in  Wales,  and  the  last  days  have  Penarth, 
been  very  pleasant :  I  escaped  from  Paris  with  Aug.,  1898. 
joy  in  my  heart  and  apart  from  a  few  people, 
the  river  in  Summer-evening  light  and  the 
gardens  in  the  cool  of  the  morning— -I  regret 
nothing. 

Penarth  is  as  beautiful  as  before.  I  go 
down  to  the  water  every  morning  and  swim 
with  the  two  boys.  I  shall  do  a  good  deal  of 
work  here,  I  expect,  during  the  month,  so  you 
will  be  able  to  get  some  idea  of  the  place  when 
I  return.  My  Father  is  pleased  with  my  work, 
which  is  a  great  pleasure  to  me.  About  your 
work?  How  does  it  “march”?  I  used  to  talk 
about  going  off  to  the  wilds  and  working 
alone,  but  lately  I  have  changed  my  mind.  I 
don’t  want  to  be  a  freak  and  I  don’t  want  to 
miss  any  of  your  recitals.  From  this  on,  there 
is  no  more  St.  Sulpice  for  me:  Widor  and 
Vienne  are  behind:  ahead,  for  a  month,  is  a 
39 


little  Wesleyan  chapel  with  a  little  cracked 
organ — ! 

Aren’t  you  very  glad  the  war  is  over?  All 
the  misery  it  has  caused !  I  hope  I  may  reach 
home  before  the  men  begin  to  return :  I 
should  like  to  share  the  enthusiasm,  the  real¬ 
ization  of  what  the  men  have  faced  and 
suffered. 

I  am  looking  forward,  now,  to  starting 
within  ten  days.  You  can’t  think  of  the  joy 
getting  back  will  mean  or  how  glad  I  shall  be 
to  be  home  again  and  down  to  work  for  life. 
The  boys  are  the  best  fun  in  the  world — you 
aren’t  the  only  one  that  has  a  cinch  on  families  ! 
Yet  what  an  awfully  queer  business  the  family 
problem  is?  Outside  one’s  home,  no  one  tells 
one  of  one’s  small  failings,  while  inside,  one 
hears  little  else.  Perhaps,  though,  one  does 
not  hear,  but  one  realizes  them  so  clearly  and 
so  constantly  that  life  becomes  almost  a  bur¬ 
den,  and  the  people  one  loves  most  in  the  world 
are  really  the  most  trying — and  the  sons  and 
daughters  go  off  and  marry,  and  the  whole 
business  begins  again!  Meantime,  I’m  having 
the  best  kind  of  a  time,  here  at  home.  My 
people  tell  me  I  have  grown  beautifully  toler¬ 
ant.  What  do  you  think  of  that — hein? 

But  it  is  good  to  come  back  to  one’s  own 
family  with  enthusiasm :  to  feel  that  the  ties 
of  blood  are  not  all  that  binds  one  to  it.  My 
mother  is  the  same  sweet,  beautiful  woman, 
whom  it  will  be  hard  to  leave — the  more  so 
now  that  my  brother  D.  has  determined  to 
return  with  me.  For  him  I  am  glad  and  it  will 
be  a  pleasure  to  me  to  have  his  company :  but 
of  the  family,  three  of  the  sons  will  be  in  Cali- 

40 


fornia,  one  in  another  part  of  England,  and 
one,  with  endowments  that  promised  much,  is 
but  a  name  and  a  memory  to  us.  And  the  dear 
mother  goes  about  the  house,  in  the  same  quiet 
way.  If  I  speak  of  the  greater  prospects  and 
the  better  climate,  she  smiles  and  says,  “Yes,  he 
will  be  happy  there,”  and  stands  at  the  win¬ 
dow,  hardly  listening,  looking  far  away,  over 
the  roads  and  the  treetops  to  the  sea :  but  with 
tears  in  her  eyes,  that  hurt  more  than  anything 
I  know. 


This  is  just  to  thank  you  for  the  note:  I 
liked  the  things  you  enclosed. 

I  was  “up”  for  an  hour  or  so,  yesterday,  but 
so  weak  that  it  didn’t  take  very  long  to  stop 
the  experiment. 

It’s  all  no  go.  How  am  I  ever  to  learn  my 
craft?  There  is  nothing  but  obstacles,  all  the 
time. 

I  wish  you  the  best  of  luck  for  tomorrow ! 

.  .  .  Please  don’t  trouble  to  send  up  to 
enquire  for  me.  ...  I  think  I  shall  get 
steadily  better,  from  this  on.  .  .  . 

* 

God  help  me  to  try  hard  for  gentleness  and 
cheerfulness ;  digging  a  way  out  of  this 
slough  of  superficial  religion.  .  .  . 

God  let  me  but  keep  kind. 

* 


Piedmont, 
California, 
Dec.  3, 
1898. 


Dec.  9. 


41 


ON  PAINTING 


ON  PAINTING 


Today,  when  every  town  has  two  or  more  Paris, 
exhibitions  of  pictures  in  the  year,  all  alike  are  Aug.,  1897. 
“artists”;  the  young  woman  who  bespeckles 
porcelain  with  forget-me-nots  and  the  young 
man,  returned  from  abroad,  having  learned 
that  equal  parts  of  the  primary  colours  added 
to  four  times  the  quantity  of  flake  white,  when 
stirred  briskly  for  some  seconds  and  applied 
with  a  fork  to  an  absorbent  canvas,  result  in  a 
picture  of  “the  rather  impressionistic  kind” — 
is  it  strange  that  intelligent  people  are  con¬ 
stantly  asking  what  ‘painting’  really  is? 

In  France  one  sees  many  brilliantly  clever 
things,  which,  as  far  as  painting  is  concerned, 
might  have  been  done  with  a  tooth-brush  or 
the  finger  nail.  In  England,  one  finds  every¬ 
thing,  from  “Mary  and  her  lamb”  to  abstruse 
extracts  from  Bulfinch,  all  with  explanatory 
poems  attached  to  the  frames ;  the  work  done 
with  fine  brushes  and  the  surface  licked  while 
drying,  in  order  to  attain  “that  ’igh  finish  of  a 
photograph,”  so  pleasing  to  the  clergy. 

In  America  the  exhibitions  are  distinguished 
by  a  preponderance  of  mermaids  and  picket 
fences. 

Under  such  circumstances  is  the  public  to 
be  blamed  for  its  ignorance  of  what  the 
painters  art  really  is? 

In  the  Luxembourg  gallery  in  Paris  there 
hang  two  modern  canvases,  which  tell  us  what 
painting  is,  in  clearest  terms. 

45 


One,  by  Edouard  Manet,  a  picture  of  a  nude 
woman  reclining  upon  the  linen  of  a  low 
bed,  will  forever  be  ranked  by  painters  as  paint¬ 
ing  of  a  great  kind.  In  this  we  see  that  joy  in 
the  manipulation  of  brushes,  in  the  handling 
of  paint,  that  is  the  distinguishing  mark  of  the 
painter;  a  man  lacking  this  joy  in  the  expres¬ 
siveness  of  his  materials  may  be  a  poet,  an 
observer,  or  an  experimentalist :  but  never  a 
painter.  In  Manet,  the  painter’s  instinct  was 
of  the  most  robust  quality :  what  he  had  to 
say  he  said  clearly :  every  time  he  put  his 
brush  to  canvas,  he  did  so  deliberately:  each 
stroke  expresses  the  painter  and  explains  itself. 
Let  any  intelligent  observer  compare  this  can¬ 
vas  of  his  with  those  hanging  near  it,  and  he 
must  at  once  see  the  difference  between  paint¬ 
ing  and  what  are  merely  drawings  coloured. 

The  second  canvas  is  that  by  Mr.  Whistler, 
the  now  famous  “Portrait  of  the  artist’s 
mother.”  In  this  we  find  a  more  sensitive  kind 
of  painting  than  that  of  Manet :  an  exquisite 
appreciation  of  what  can  be  done  with  the 
brush.  Apart  from  the  distinction  of  the  ar¬ 
rangement  and  colour,  this  canvas  gives  us  an 
example  of  painting  in  the  highest  meaning 
of  the  word.  It  is  the  work,  not  only  of  a  great 
painter,  but  of  a  great  artist  as  well.  A  man’s 
place  as  a  painter  is  decided  not  by  what  he 
paints,  but  how  he  paints  it.  What  he  has  to 
say  is,  finally  of  course,  of  greater  importance 
to  us  than  his  manner.  His  choice  of  subject 
will  reveal  to  us  how  much  of  an  artist  he  is, 
how  far  he  understands  the  limitations  of  his 
art:  but  at  this  present  moment  that  deeper 
question  need  not  concern  us. 


46 


CHARENTON 

1898 


ON  PICTURES 


The  colour  is  beautiful  and  clear :  the  paint¬ 
ing  very  thin,  the  canvas  fine  and  hardly  count¬ 
ing  at  all.  It  looks  to  me  as  though  the  work 
were  carried  over  a  long  time  and  constantly 
let  harden.  This  man  paints  in  a  beautiful 
delicate  way.  The  shadows  are  painted  very 
thin  and  wet. 


A  beautiful  composition,  very  strongly 
modelled,  with  a  much  better  feeling  for  the 
brush  than  in  his  larger  things— -and  while  the 
colour  is  not  great,  yet  it  is  simple  and  clean. 


A  beautiful  Spring-like  thing — the  painting 
very  thin  and  quiet.  He  pays  great  attention 
to  detail,  without  losing  breadth :  the  painting 
is  beautiful:  there  is  no  hesitation  in  the 
brushing. 


Most  disappointing.  In  black  and  white,  it 
has  always  delighted  me:  here,  the  colour  is 
bad  and  the  painting  also,  but  the  arrangement 
and  feeling  are  great. 


A  wonderful  French  evening  light,  full  of 
poetry  and  yet  very  real.  The  colour  is  beauti¬ 
ful  :  the  composition  fine  and  serene— the  can- 
47 


Corot, 
“Souv. 
d’ It  a  lie.” 


Millet, 

“Les 

Baingneuses.” 


Daubigny. 


Millet, 

‘‘The 

Gleaners.” 


Rousseau, 
“Sortie  de 
Foret.” 


vas  nowhere  loaded  and  yet  it  might  be  cleaner 
brushing.  Not  what  I  would  call  great  paint¬ 
ing  :  it  is  rather  a  draughtman’s  painting  than 
a  painter’s.  Great  painting  should  be  expres¬ 
sive  in  every  stroke :  there  should  be  no  in¬ 
decisive  strokes  and  the  brush  should  be  felt 
everywhere. 


Kiyonaga, 

“The 

Balcony.” 


Three  women,  on  the  one  summer’s  evening 
of  the  world — on  a  rose-white  enamel  balcony, 
far  above  the  pale,  gold-green  summer  sea, 
which  the  sky  meets,  with  a  suggestion  of  sil¬ 
ver  violet-grey.  Upon  the  sea  are  boats 
which  the  one  woman  watches,  as  she  toys 
with  something  she  holds  in  her  hands.  Her 
gown  is  rosier  than  the  water,  but  very 
slightly.  She  wears  a  great  black  sash.  The 
woman  standing  in  conversation  with  the  one 
who  is  kneeling  is  dressed  in  a  rose-gold  gown 
— the  latter  in  black.  The  blind,  hanging  into 
the  upper  corner  of  the  picture,  is  green,  and 
the  hair  of  each  of  the  women  is  black. 


One  of  the  most  beautiful  things  in  the 
Louvre,  to  me,  is  the  figure  of  a  woman  upon 
an  earthen  helmet  from  Canosa.  Tall  and 
dreamlike,  beautiful  in  line,  she  carries  herself, 
her  shield  and  sword,  with  an  exquisite  grace ; 
the  swirl  of  drapery,  her  forward  motion  and 
nodding  plume,  are  rendered  in  a  perfect 
way :  and  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  slight  relief, 
ravish  one. 


48 


There  is  no  need  for  realism  in  painting  be-  Paris, 
yond  a  genuine  impulse  received  from  Nature :  Moy, l8^- 
colour  and  drawing  one  has  entire  liberty  to 
subject  to  the  one  end  of  expression. 

What  makes  a  great  picture  is  not  brilliancy 
of  handling,  or  the  complete  rendering  of  sur¬ 
faces,  but  the  seizing  and  holding  of  some  ele¬ 
ment  of  that  divine  beauty  which  all  things 
possess  in  some  degree.  And  the  mark  of  any 
great  work  of  art — whether  it  be  a  print  of 
Kiyonaga’s,  the  “Concert  Champetre”  of  Gior¬ 
gione,  or  a  Bach  fugue, — is  this :  that  it  is  for 
all  time  and  belonging  to  none :  stamped  with 
the  mark  of  infinity. 

The  “Infante”  and  the  “Assyrian  Sphinx”— 
even  slighter  great  things,  some  of  Corot’s 
landscapes,  possess  this  power  to  carry  us,  be¬ 
yond  time  and  place,  into  what,  in  one’s  happi¬ 
est  dreams,  one  fashions  eternity. 

If  the  painting  of  surfaces  were  the  great 
thing,  we  should  count  Manet  a  great  artist 
for  his  “Olymphe,”  which  is  painting  carried 
to  the  last  point  the  craftsman  alone  can  carry 
it;  had  the  artist  in  him  been  more  pro¬ 
nounced,  he  would  have  stood  amongst  the 
greatest.  But  that  the  artist  comes  be¬ 
fore  the  craftsman,  no  one  will  deny;  the 
“Concert”  of  Giorgione  in  the  Louvre,  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  in  a  painter’s  sense  it  is  not 
painted,  still,  like  a  beautiful  dream,  brings 
tears  to  one’s  eyes,  while  in  the  presence  of  the 
“Olymphe”  one  only  wonders  at  the  glory  of 
the  painting  and  the  realism  of  the  canvas.  If 
it  is  a  beautiful  thing,  it  is  because  the  woman’s 
firm  and  supple  body  was  a  beautiful  thing  in 
itself— was  squarely  seen  and  wonderfully 
49 


painted :  a  process  in  which  the  painter  never 
forgot  his  model. 

In  all  the  canvases  by  Henry  Muhrman,  in 
greater  or  less  degree,  is  the  distinguishing 
mark  of  a  great  art :  a  mark  one  looks  for  with 
such  dearth  of  reward  amongst  the  myriad 
works  of  alleged  artists  shown  at  the  Paris 
and  London  exhibitions. 

Now  the  God-given  gift  of  seeing  is  sent  not 
to  the  many  and  not  to  the  few:  somewhere 
between  the  many  and  the  few  the  limit  of  this 
company  lies ;  but  the  power  to  see,  with  the 
power  to  express — ah !  how  rare  is  the  man 
with  the  two  gifts !  He  stands  second  only  to 
the  great  architect  or  the  great  composer,  who, 
by  instinct,  deal  as  freely  with  advanced  mathe¬ 
matics  as  with  the  abstractly  beautiful.  But 
it  is  a  futile  thing — this  comparison  between 
the  arts :  if  a  man  has  seen  and  rendered 
beauty,  let  us  acknowledge  him :  his  rank,  the 
years  alone  can  decide.  For  us  the  landscapes 
of  Henry  Muhrman  reveal  these  two  gifts  of 
seeing  and  expressing.  .  .  .  [Unfinished.] 


50 


ON  LANDSCAPE 


ON  LANDSCAPE 


The  wind  is  north :  the  overhead  sun  floods 
the  landscape  with  a  hard  and  glaring  light: 
the  blue  sky  seems,  like  the  sun  and  wind,  to 
lack  mercy.  Everything  suffers :  the  hills  look 
parched  and  careworn :  the  grass,  that  so  lately 
brought  the  joy  and  hope  of  Spring  to  the 
hearts  of  men  slowly  yields  up  its  life.  The 
roads  lie  white  and  dusty,  the  ring  and  hard¬ 
ness  gone  from  them :  no  invitation  have  they 
for  the  traveller. 

A  group  of  eucalyptus  trees  stand  silently 
bearing  the  unmerciful  light,  yet  everything 
waits  in  hope:  and  as  the  sun  slowly  sinks, 
all  changes.  The  landscape  sings  with  colour, 
as  a  gem:  the  distant  hills  are  suffused  with 
purple  and  gold :  their  careworn  look  of  noon 
vanishes,  and  in  its  place,  great  solemnness  and 
contentment — broad  lights  and  noble  shadow. 
The  grass,  almost  golden,  holding  still  a  linger¬ 
ing  note  of  green,  blazes  now  in  the  rich  light : 
here  and  there  long  shadows  steal  over  it,  giv¬ 
ing  peace.  The  trees,  rejoicing  in  a  wealth  of 
colour,  are  of  green  with  gold  in  the  green  and 
a  broken  vibrant  violet  in  the  shadows,  and 
opulent  gold  upon  trunks  and  branches. 

The  great  quiet  landscape  smiles;  and  I, 
coming  wearily  home  over  the  hill,  conscious 
of  my  own  littleness  (though  doubtless  beauti¬ 
ful,  too,  in  the  coloured  light),  smile  and  thank 
God  fervently,  that  He  did  not  make  the  land¬ 
scape  grey. 

53 


Piedmont, 

1895 ■ 


1897- 


Villefranche, 
Jan.,  1898. 


Piedmont, 
Italy, 
Feb.,  1898. 


Canali. 


A  glowing  July  afternoon  on  the  Seine, 
between  Paris  and  St.  Cloud — men,  loading 
stone  on  a  great  barge,  stripped  to  the  waist, 
the  skin  a  golden-rose  colour,  quite  low  in  tone, 
against  the  water,  blue,  very  deep. 

While  out  of  doors,  I  see  colour  high :  but  I 
think  in  low,  rich  colour. 


Terraces  upon  terraces,  and  as  far  as  the 
eye  travels  are  the  domes  of  silver-green  olives 
— then,  far  up,  a  great  rosy  and  blue  cliff. 

In  the  beds  on  the  terraces,  beneath  the  olive 
trees,  are  Spring  flowers  which  scent  the  air, 
warmed  now,  by  the  growing  sun  of  the  New 
Year.  The  sky  is  Californian  blue:  below  me 
lies  the  harbour,  where  rides  the  U.  S.  S.  “San 
Francisco,”  with  many  little  empty  boats 
around  it.  A  wisp  of  mist  lies  close  upon  the 
horizon,  but  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky. 


Vineyarded  hills  high  in  a  blue  sky,  with 
golden  houses  and  grey  roofs.  The  hills  are 
broken  by  the  first  Spring  green,  crocuses  and 
blossoming  almonds. 


Terraced  almond  orchards  and  the  trees  in 
full  blossom — grey  hills  back  of  them :  and  the 
grey-green  sea,  coming  to  purple  toward  the 
horizon — silver-grey  houses  and  church-towers. 


Golden  and  rosy,  with  the  sea  a  grey-blue 
dream ;  and  beyond,  the  blue  sky  with  snow- 


54 


Genoa. 


PENARTH  PIER 
1898 


capped  Alps— -faint  and  vanishing;  churches, 
with  torrents  of  full  colour  and  gold-— the 
colour  of  fruit  ripened  under  a  warm  sun.  The 
curtain  over  a  church  window,  full  of  the  reds 
of  fruit  and  wine  and  gold— and  the  market 
place — colour  again. 


Town  desolate — children  with  wooden  san-  Montaro. 
dais — a  beautiful  Wintry-Spring  landscape, 
human  and  clean;  a  landscape  gentle,  and 
worked  by  man :  coloured  with  gold  and  gold- 
green.  The  yellow  rosiness  of  the  bare  wil¬ 
lows,  touched  with  violet — everywhere  houses 
of  old  gold  brick  and  of  stucco,  with  hospitable 
arches  for  cattle  and  crops — all  taking  the  light 
in  a  simple  way— with  dignity:  everywhere 
colour,  full  colour,  living,  but  old  and  warm. 


A  town  of  beautiful  and  sedate  buildings,  Verona. 
bare  trees,  and  subdued  green  of  Winter  grass  ; 
a  brisk  river,  with  golden  houses  and  blue 
shadows — a  great  deal  of  rose-coloured  marble. 

Missed  our  train,  so  lunched  and  slept  on  the 
grass.  The  sun  begins  to  get  warm  and  the 
chestnut  buds  are  becoming  sticky.  A  swell 
market-place — big  white  umbrellas  and  people 
with  their  wares  below— the  whole  square  full 
of  beautiful  colour  and  buildings — a  iown  com¬ 
pact  and  of  great  dignity— people  and  build¬ 
ings,  all  beautiful.  Squares  with  hosts  of  tame, 
hungry  pigeons.  Later,  crossed  the  town  and 
sat  on  a  pile  of  stones  by  the  roadside,  till 
the  train  was  due,  looking  over  a  pleasant 
green,  with  bare  trees,  soldiers  drilling  and 
55 


resting:  a  few  children  playing;  the  houses 
beyond  the  trees,  white  and  golden  stucco. 

On  the  way  to  Padua — a  beautiful,  level 
country  with  vines  and  mulberry  trees — newly 
turned,  golden  brown  earth,  the  new  green 
showing  in  the  grain  fields  and  some  grass 
fields  all  starred  with  a  pale  purple  crocus : 
in  the  distance  low  hills,  vibrating  in  sunshine 
and  beyond  these,  hills  with  snow. 


Venice.  Arrived  by  water  (steam  tramway  from 
Padua).  Venice  from  the  boat,  a  blaze  of  eve¬ 
ning  sunlight.  St.  Marks  like  a  jewel.  Saw 
Gustavo  Salvini  play  “Othello” — an  out-of¬ 
sight  Moor  in  blue  and  gold.  Place  S.  Marco, 
Saturday  night,  the  gas  lights  lit,  a  band  play¬ 
ing  :  all  the  boys  and  girls  masked  for  carnival 
and  all  the  town  out.  St.  Marks,  glowing  with 
colour  and  the  alarmed  pigeons  making  long 
and  bewildered  flight  in  the  gas-lighted  night. 


Como.  A  quiet  evening  sunset — primroses  in  full 
bloom  and  willows  with  catkins:  only  two 
patches  of  snow  on  this  protected  side  of  the 
mountains — and  at  Chiasso  a  wait  of  two 
hours ;  children  doing  their  best  to  be  gay  for 
the  fete  season. 


Paris,  A  l°ng  sail  down  the  river  to  St.  Cloud — 
July,  1898.  the  sun  hot  and  a  cool  wind  blowing. 

The  walk  up  to  the  basin  at  the  end  of  the 
great  avenue — heated  with  my  load — smelling 
every  rose  along  the  way,  and  at  the  end,  sit- 

56 


ting  upon  the  bank  bestrewn  with  clover  blos¬ 
soms  and  watching  the  great  white  clouds  pass 
silently  over  the  tops  of  the  great  trees.  This 
is  life,  to  me ! 

.  .  Where  swallows  play  between  low  banks, 
And  the  white  clouds  hang  reflected : 

The  great  white  rounded  clouds  of  Summer, 
Floating  in  the  powdered  blue. 

The  great,  green  rounded,  heavy  trees, 

That  shimmer  down  the  terraced  avenue.  .  .  . 


The  great  trees  against  the  singing  blue  Penarth, 
of  the  channel— gold-green  slopes,  with  play-  dug.,  1898. 
ing  children:  upon  the  blue  expanse,  sails 
of  luminous  white,  like  worn  ivory.  Far  below, 
the  jutting  pier,  dark  against  the  water — with 
liquid  lights  of  gold  and  ruby,  melting  into 
the  wet  sky. 


57 


THE  HILLS  :  PIEDMONT 
1896 


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GETTY  RESEARCH  INSTITUTE 


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